


MEDIC!

by paladin_danse



Series: in love & war [1]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Alternate Universe - World War II, Behind Enemy Lines, Blackmail, Bullet Extraction, Charles is a smol medic, Erik is a Father, Language Barrier, Lost in the Woods, M/M, Medical Procedures, Slow Burn, Snowfall, Y i k e s, a little bit of stitching erik up, and charles knows no german, in which erik is not good with english, lots of blood, mention of concentration camps, shaw is a monster :) :) :), they took his babies, yikes charles, yikes erik
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 22:23:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8119786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paladin_danse/pseuds/paladin_danse
Summary: A British airborne medic finds himself alone and afraid behind enemy lines. When he decides to save the life of an S.S. German officer he finds wounded in the snow, he has no idea the choice he has made will alter the course of the war—and their lives—forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was based on a piece of fanart I ran across on tumblr a year or so ago. I've been thinking about writing something about it for some time but finally got the motivation to do so.
> 
> You can find the piece of art here:  
> http://brilcrist.tumblr.com/post/18101313334/x-men-first-class-wwii-au-we-got-charles-as-a

The snow that crunched beneath him as he ran breathless through the trees had frozen his toes through the leather of his boots. Some metal supplies clinked together in the pack he hauled on his back. The chill in the air stung his lungs as he gasped, desperate to keep going but knowing he would need to catch his breath, and soon. The young man stopped beside one of the trees near a small gulch and slid down into it, glancing around for any signs of movement as he tried to calm his breathing. “C. Xavier” read the name across the gray British uniform on his heaving chest, and a white cuff with a red cross was displayed proudly on his sleeve.

Closing his eyes, he set a finger to his temple and focused. Through the trees his mind flashed, searching through the sea of thoughts—German, French, English—until he heard the faint echoes of a familiar American accent. “Charles... lost... Have to go back...!” It was like Howlett to worry about him, but the thoughts were almost too far away, and Charles felt him slip from his reach just before he could call out to him for help.

“Shit!” he hissed, settling down against the side of the bank hopelessly, a hand running through his hair. He'd lost his helmet in the paratroopers' rough landing a few moments ago, and the thought of being without it unnerved him greatly. At least here, he could rest a moment and take some time to think about what he was doing. His gaze drifted down to look at his trembling fingers, and he brought them to his mouth to breathe through the fabric of his gloves and try to warm them before he rubbed them together quickly. It was _so cold_... His thoughts went back to a time when he could sit beside the fireplace in his home and bask in the warmth as it popped and crackled. Charles tried to imagine that warmth and make it real as real as he could, but no amount of creativity would unfreeze his poor fingers and toes.

Indecision wracked him as Charles peeked up over the edges of the small gulch once more. He stayed still, listen for movement, but when he heard none, he decided to scramble over the edge and continue on his way. What a stupid, stupid plan. The sergeant had wanted them to parachute behind enemy lines as a way of ambushing a German platoon with a high-profile officer on their way to support the troops in the next city over, but all that ended up happening was them being caught in the act and Charles being separated from them as they all scattered to hide and escape. Needless to say, they'd lost the element of surprise, and the Germans were planning retaliation, no doubt.

The thought that he was going to die out here weighed heavily on his mind as he waded through the snow. Despite this, he held no rifle in his arms. It was instead strapped to his pack and hadn't been removed since he'd come to the front. He didn't want to kill anybody. Charles only wanted to help people, and being drafted as a combat medic was the single most horrifying thing that had ever happened to him. He hated war, hated the idea of it. Fighting for peace was a silly notion and a vicious cycle, but he could not abandon the call of duty or the men on the battlefield that needed him.

Charles felt his stomach rumble with a growl as he wiped his nose on his sleeve, sniffling, and he sighed softly as he leaned against one of the nearby trees whose bark crumpled softly beneath his weight. Maybe he should stop to rest and eat something. As far as he could tell, there was no one near him, but he could never be too careful. With a quick survey of the area, he crouched down beside the tree and retrieved a small canteen of water from his belt, taking a drink before he broke open a package of crackers. They were no turkey dinner, but they were something. Charles didn't like the crunch of them as he chewed because it impaired his hearing, but he kept an “ear” out with his mind as he ate them slowly.

He had no plan, and Charles didn't like not having a plan. All he knew to do was simply walk through the woods and try to find his way. The woods all looked the same, and a thick layer of clouds loomed between him and the sun, which made it impossible to tell direction based on its position. Maybe he would be able to tap someone's thoughts and poke around a bit for some direction.

Very suddenly, there were German thoughts nearby so loud that it made him physically jump. In his surprise, the crackers scattered from the package in his fingers and, as he panicked, Charles tried to bury them in the snow after realizing he could not pick them up in time before he would be seen. A tree branch scratched his cheek as he scrambled away, but the stinging was of little concern to him at the moment. His heart pounded from the fear that flooded through him as he raced through the trees as quietly as he could. _Shit, shit, shit_ , he thought as he put distance between them until he thought it safe to stop and hid behind the trunk of a large tree.

As he Charles caught his breath, his eyes fell shut again and he focused his powers with a finger to his temple once more to connect to the distant soldier's mind. He could not understand the verbal thoughts the man had (which were the easiest to read for Charles) and instead tried to focus on what he saw. The soldier was looking down at a helmet in his hands whose strap he was trying to readjust. He was joking with a companion that walked with him as they laughed.

Realization swept through the man's mind as he looked down past his helmet at a cracker in the snow and dug it out with his gloved fingers. He said something in German as he showed the piece of food to his comrade and, briefly, a face flashed through the man's mind of who it might belong to as he asked a question. Charles didn't recognize the face, but by the man's following thoughts, he figured that it was somebody they were looking for. As he watched through the soldier's eyes, the man lifted the helmet to place it back on his head, and the connection to his mind was severed.

Charles swallowed hard as he tried to calm his heavy breathing. That was close—too close. Those damn helmets... Whatever the Germans had done to them completely cut off his ability to access their minds. He wondered if they had someone on their side smart enough to implement defenses against telepaths or if it was just a lucky coincidence. Either way, he had to stay on his toes, or he was going to be caught one of these days, and he would be able to do nothing about it. Although it was a war crime to knowingly shoot and kill a medic, S.S. soldiers were known for their ruthlessness and disregard for such laws. Because of this, Charles would have liked to avoid them as much as he could.

Charles decided to slip his gloves off and tuck them into his belt to better have control over his fingers as he tore open a new package of crackers. The wrapper had been ripped slightly, and there was some dirt on the corners, but he was able to break those parts off and throw them away from his trail easy enough. Some nearby crows were grateful for the snack. They were stale with little flavor other than the light salting, but Charles tried to enjoy them while he could.

A small while later, he thought he was able to see some sort of building ahead in the distance as he wiped his fingers of the remaining cracker crumbs. It was dilapidated and run-down, but it could serve as cover for him while he laid out a plan of where to go and how to get to the camp. He wasn't even sure which way he was going, but he thought shelter was a good place to start as he took a drink of water from his canteen.

As he came around an old fallen tree dusted with snow, Charles glanced very quickly at a form lying face-down near the roots with a red band around the bicep before he jumped back behind the tree, fear stinging into every pore of his body. His fingers trembled as he struggled to pull the pistol out of its holster at his side. He wasn't going to shoot anybody—he knew that well enough—but a gun in his hand evened things out if the opposing side had one as well.

Charles tried to hold his breath as he stood there in anticipation, praying that he hadn't been seen or heard, but when he realized there was no movement or even thoughts coming from the man (he hadn't seen a helmet), he swallowed hard and dared a peek around the tree once more. The S.S. officer was unconscious, and Charles became flooded with concern as he realized that the snow around him was stained red with blood.

With a quick glance around himself, he moved forward to kneel beside the man and turn him onto his back. He seemed to have hit his head quite hard on something by the trail of blood dripping down the side of his face, but his bullet wound was a more concerning matter. He'd been shot in the abdomen, just below the stomach, and was still bleeding. Charles placed his fingers to the wound quickly and withdrew them to examine the blood. Whoever shot him must have done it recently because it was still very wet and fresh.

Charles discarded his pistol and quickly slipped his bag off his shoulders to rifle through it for a package of sulfa. Tearing the top off, he poured some of the white powder onto the wound with small shakes of the package and pressed a small amount of gauze to the area. Another quick glance around the wooded area heeded no sign of any others accompanying him, but that didn't mean there weren't more close by.

As Charles turned back to finally get a good look at his face, he realized that this was the man the soldiers from earlier had been looking for. He was more handsome in person than he had been in the German soldier's thoughts. A smooth jaw and strong features—but he didn't appear to look like most Germans. His dark, disheveled hair had a slight ginger hint to it. Most of the Nazis Charles had come across were blonde haired and blue eyed, like poster boys of the master race they were so intent on achieving. Was this man a deserter of some kind? God, Charles hoped so. He didn't want to get shot as soon as the man woke up... _if_ he woke up...

His eyes flickered over his shoulder to the small structure he'd seen in the distance, and he wondered to himself for a moment as he put pressure on the wound. Charles would have to drag him, and that would leave a very obvious trail of blood and footprints behind, but he might be able to cover it up with a little bit of time since the snow was still light and fluffy.

Giving himself a small pep talk, Charles hooked his arms beneath the unconscious soldier's armpits and began to drag him as fast and gently as he could to the shack. It was only about a hundred yards or so, but the chances of him being seen were even higher now as he groaned and heaved. He was relieved to see the blood didn't stain the snow as much as he thought it might, which meant the sulfa was successfully clotting the wound. He would still have to remove the bullet, but that was something he would worry about in a few minutes.

They were able to make it to the shack without getting shot at, so Charles took this as a sign they hadn't been seen. The roof was beginning to cave in, but the structure was otherwise in decent shape, and Charles hoped it would hold for the time they would be there. It was an empty single room building, and the only window anywhere was in the door. He heaved the man inside onto the dusty floor and peeked out through the door momentarily before shutting it. There was no lock but he tried to wedge a piece of wood between the door and the frame to keep anyone from barging in without warning.

He would have to cover the trail later. Treating the wound was a more pressing issue. Even though he wasn't bleeding as badly, the soldier was still in danger of internal bleeding but Charles hoped this was not the case as he spread out his supplies. His fingers worked quickly to undo the unfamiliar uniform and pull the jacket and blood-stained shirt open to reveal his chest and abdomen. Charles would be lying if he said his eyes didn't wander as he removed the pieces of clothing from the man.

He was thankful that he didn't have to use any of his ammonia or morphine. They could be saved for later when the man woke up and was in pain. The tremble in Charles' fingers was cause for some concern, but he was able to successfully remove the bullet and clean the wound before he sewed it shut quickly and fastened the bandages as best he could. Darkness had begun to fall, which made the procedure all the more difficult, but he was glad to have it over with.

Using safety pins from his pack, Charles skewered them into the door frame to hang the soldier's bloody jacket over the small window in the door and, after covering their trail, gathered some nearby dirt, rocks and tree branches to build a small makeshift campfire inside. After he was sure that it would steadily burn for at least a little while, he pulled off his boots and gloves quickly to warm his freezing toes and fingers with a sigh of relief. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be warm.

But Charles only allowed himself to be distracted by the satisfaction of heat for a moment before his eyes wandered over to the German officer lying beside him on the floor. Charles had draped his own jacket over the man to keep him warm, but he wasn't sure it would be enough. Gingerly, he leaned over to check the pulse at his neck, brushing past the stubble of his chin. It was weak but still there.

Charles couldn't do much more at this point than wait to see if he would wake up. But he didn't know how long he would be waiting, and he couldn't very well leave him there, so that put a damper on Charles returning to camp before the sun began to rise the next morning like he'd planned. He thought about the possibility of attracting German soldiers so they could find the man, but the fact that he may have been a deserter shot down that idea as well. He might know something that could be useful to the Allies, and Charles would do anything to help end this war as soon as he could. If bringing this man back with him would do that, so be it.

Shivering, Charles curled up next to the fire and watched the light dance across the soldier's handsome features. Who was he? Where was he from? His dark hair and distinct features made Charles think that he might be a Jew... but what would a Jew be doing working for the S.S.? Curiosity nearly got the best of Charles, but he decided he shouldn't pry. Poking around in someone's mind that lay unconscious was a daunting task for him, and Charles wanted to sleep as light as he could despite already being exhausted. With a soft sigh, his eyes slowly drifted closed as he began descending into a dreamless sleep.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It's been a long time! Thank you for all the kind comments you've all left on the first chapter. I hope this quenches your thirst for WWII Cherik for now.

The biting cold of the winter air was the first thing Charles felt as he roused from sleep, coughing faintly with the taste of campfire in his mouth. His teeth chattered, and he shivered as his eyes cracked open. But surprise washed over him as he realized that the soldier was not lying before him on the floor as he was last night. Instead, as Charles sat up, he heard the sound of a gun cocking, and his eyes shifted to the man who sat upright in the corner against the door. A revolver was in his hand that trembled from the cold like the rest of his form.

Charles glanced down quickly to the empty holster at his shoulder to confirm that it was his own firearm before he turned back to the man across the room from him. Goosebumps waved across his skin as he lifted his own trembling hands defensively, though whether they shook from fear or the cold was unclear.

The terror that was flooding him at the moment was something that Charles had never felt before. Until that moment, he had never had a reason to truly fear for his life. He thought he'd been afraid when he boarded the plane to Belgium bound for the war front or when he'd jumped from the plane to the ambush on the road, but he had never had someone's eyes stare coldly into his own with the barrel of a gun pointed at him with the intent to shoot him. He swallowed hard, trying to think of a quick solution to the mess that he had found himself in.

“ _Ich brauche medizin_ ,” the soldier said and kicked Charles' medical pack to him, which skidded across the floor with metal buckles scratching against the wooden planks. “Medicine,” he repeated in a thick German accent.

Charles swallowed hard as he crawled across the floor on his knees to the bag, dragging it into his lap and undoing the latches to flip it open. With a quick look up to the man before him who watched impatiently with gritted teeth, Charles listened to his thoughts racing in German. Almost none of the words in the rough, unfamiliar tongue were recognizable, though he was in a good amount of pain judging the curse words that Charles was able to learn from his fellow soldiers. Through all of the jumbled information in the man's mind that was part English, part German and part some other languages, Charles was at least able to weed out a name: Erik.

Fingers worked quickly to take out a small syrette of morphine along with some bandages. Charles fumbled with the objects, feeling his face warm in embarrassment as he picked them up off the ground. Maybe if he could show the soldier that he meant no harm, they'd come to a peaceful resolution and both go their separate ways considering Charles had just saved his life. The situation hardly looked promising since the S.S. were known for their brutality, but Charles could at least try.

Before he was able to pop the plastic lid off of the syrette, it was yanked from his hand, as if by the force of someone grabbing it from him, and Charles watched in bewilderment as the small item zoomed through the air to the soldier's outstretched hand across the room. The man grabbed it and examined the tube a moment with a suspicious glance upwards. “ _Morphium_?” he asked, holding it out to Charles, as if to beckon him closer.

Charles let out a shuddered exhale, too stunned to speak for a moment. Although he'd met others with powers like him before, the encounters he'd had were nothing compared to this. He felt like he'd been struck by lightning and all of the breath had been knocked from him in the crash of it as he stared. “You--You're...” he whispered in a cracked voice, and then, after a pause, lifted a hand to his temple. _You have no reason to fear me, Erik. My name is Charles Xavier. I'm like you._

The soldier was startled a small amount at the sound of Charles' voice inside his mind. His grip tightened on the handle of the gun, and his chest began to heave slightly from the surprise, but the weapon lowered slowly until it rested against his thigh. “I thought I was alone,” he uttered in disbelief with his German accent, staring at Charles.

“You're not alone,” Charles replied with a faint smile gracing his lips as he scurried across the floor to close the space between them, gently taking the syrette from the man's open hand.

Erik looked up at him with astonishment flooding his eyes as Charles drew near. Charles smiled faintly and pulled the cap and metal hook off of the syrette. Lifting Erik's shirt, he inserted the needle into his skin, giving the small pack a squeeze until it was empty of its contents. A look of relief came over Erik, and immediately he began to relax back against the shack's wooden wall, his eyes beginning to fall closed. “ _Danke_ ,” he whispered, breathing a long sigh. When he was sure the morphine had begun its work near the bullet wound, Charles changed the bandage and discarded the old one in the corner with a mental note to burn as kindling.

Despite his numbness, Erik's body was still trembling from the cold, and Charles turned back to his pack to withdraw the gray blanket from within and drape it across him. Erik wasn't going to be much of a conversation partner now as he seemed to be drifting into a comfortable slumber, but Charles was still strangely comforted by the sort of kinship that had sparked between them. Although they were on two different sides of the same war, Charles had sensed no real hostility in the little time that they had interacted, despite his initial fear upon waking up with a gun pointed at him. Maybe he wasn't a bad man after all... but Charles' thoughts lingered on the black uniform he'd found Erik in.

His gaze shifted to where the gun lay beneath the fabric of the blanket as his thoughts wandered to the other German soldiers out in the snow nearby, and for a moment, he contemplated on whether or not he should pick it up. Deciding against it, Charles instead donned his jacket that had been discarded by Erik onto the floor and began building another fire. The smoke would be a nuisance in such a small space, but at least he would have some warmth while he waited for Erik to wake up again. Why he was waiting? He wasn't sure. He knew Erik would die if he left him out here alone. Part of him wondered if the world would be better off with one less S.S. officer, but the heart that beat within his chest would never allow that to happen. He would save any life that he could, regardless of what color uniform they wore.

  
  


The days during the winter lasted only a few hours, but Charles had taken the time during the light to cautiously gather more kindling, making it a point to make his footprints crisscross and become confusing were anyone to attempt to follow his trail. He'd come to realize that the abandoned shack they were staying in used to be a wood shed, but judging by its state, it hadn't been used in quite a while. He would have never known had he not pulled a tarp from the top of a small pile of chopped logs in the corner. At least the little remaining wood was dry. Charles was relieved he wouldn't have to worry about their source of warmth for the next day or two, because without this unexpected gift, they would have very little of it.

When he returned to the shack, Charles took down the black jacket from the door and instead replaced it with the dark tarp he'd found. It seemed a much better option to block the light of the fire from escaping since it was much thicker material while folded up, and Erik might need the jacket when he woke up despite the blood stains that Charles had attempted to wash out.

The sky had grown dark again by the time Erik began to rouse from his slumber. Charles was able to tell by the faint German thoughts drifting from his mind that became more and more coherent. He had a small fire going and had put on a tin of broth he'd mixed with some gathered snow when he heard his name in Erik's mind and turned to find his eyes barely cracked open.

Charles smiled at him as he stirred the broth into the melting snow with his tin opener, lacking something a bit more practical to mix them together with. There weren't any words exchanged. They simply sat in silence as the snow melted in the tin and the broth began to bubble.

Erik's thoughts were calm but seemed contemplative in an unfamiliar manner. Charles found himself rather frustrated by not knowing what he was thinking. Usually he didn't like to poke around in people's minds, but the language barrier between them was almost all too intriguing to stop himself. There was some broken English in the his thoughts that Charles could barely identify, but finally after the long silence between them, Erik broke it as he uttered, “I'm not... Nazi.”

Charles turned to look at him, the light of the fire flickering across Erik's features as he gazed into the flames. Charles glanced to the black uniform jacket lying on the ground beside him where the red arm band was visible through the crumpled material before he glanced back up at Erik. “What?”

Erik turned to look at him, pulling the blanket around himself to rest upon his shoulders. “I am a Jew.”

With furrowed brows, Charles' hand stopped and he turned to face Erik fully. “... I don't understand,” he whispered, moving the small tin of broth off of the fire with his boot to let it cool.

Erik released a heavy sigh as his gaze lingered on the flames, refusing to look at Charles. “I used to be Nazi,” he began, shifting closer to the fire and holding his hands out to feel the warmth of it. He was probably freezing. “Before they were... How do you—? 'Fanatics'?”

Charles watched him with interest, hanging on his every word, but he said nothing as he listened. By the way that the information didn't have to be thought through before it was said, Charles could tell that he was telling the truth.

“He was a leader who promised great things—jobs, homes, a better world,” Erik continued, a look of despair in his reminiscing eyes. “We all believed he would make Germany great again...” Erik's hand tightened into a fist until his knuckles turned white and began to tremble. “ _Scheißkerl,_ ” he hissed out angrily, slamming his fist down onto the floor and causing Charles to jump backwards. Unsure of what to say, Charles simply listened.

Charles had done some studying before going to war, and he wasn't surprised to learn that initially, Hitler's ideals had once not been so radical. He was a man who promised great things for his country, like a complete national rejuvenation, and many people had faith in him and his new political party—that is, of course, without realizing what Hitler's true goals were or just how far he was willing to go with his regime. Erik's explanation for previous commitment to the Nazi party before they had become so radical made sense... but there was something that did not.

Schutzstaffel (S.S. for short) officers were very different from regular German soldiers. It was fairly well-known that most of the German soldiers drafted into the army to fight in the Great War hated Hitler and cared very little for his extremism, but they fought because they had to—for fear of the safety of their families and friends or even their own lives. The S.S., however, were the men who believed very firmly in the ideals of the Nazi party and in the eradication of the Jewish people, and the loyalty to these radical ideals were tested continuously throughout their service. So if Erik didn't support Adolf Hitler, and if he was indeed a Jew... what was he doing wearing such a uniform?

“Why did you join the S.S.?” Charles whispered after his moment of silent pondering.

He scoffed. “I didn't,” was Erik's short reply as his blank eyes stared into the fire. He began to recall some strongly emotional memories that Charles did not anticipate. Flashes of skinny bodies covered in dirt and mud, groans of pain all around, hunger and unbearable aching, a woman with dark curls and blue eyes being dragged away from their home as she screamed for her children—Charles had to sever the connection quickly before he was brought to tears, trying to choke them back as he cleared his throat.

Erik's arm moved out from underneath the blanket with his wrist turned upwards, and Charles leaned over to look at the skin, but he withdrew quickly when he realized what it was he was looking at: a tattoo of several numbers. His eyes met Erik's, wide in shock. “That... You were in a camp?” he whispered, horror flooding over him.

Erik nodded grimly, running his fingers absent-mindedly over the numbers tattooed into his skin. “There was an Oberführer that discovered me there. Sebastian Shaw,” he whispered, his expression still blank despite the pain that Charles could feel within him. “He took them from me...” His voice cracked, but Erik clenched his jaw, his eyes flickering downwards as they teared up. “He promised to save them if I would fight for the _Führer_...” His voice cracked again as a tear shed, slipping down his cheek, slow, defeated.

And suddenly it made sense. Love was the only thing powerful enough to drive a good man to such lengths. Charles' head bowed as he reviewed the information he'd just been given, nearly unable to grasp the depth of agony that Erik must have felt through all of his experiences. He wanted to put his arms around the broken man beside him, but he was unsure of what Erik's reaction would be to the show of affection. Would he lash out? “Erik,” he began, taking pause and thinking about the words he was going to say. “Come with me to the Allies' camp. It's just a few miles away, and the Americans... They can help you.”

Erik sniffled and shook his head as he wiped away his tears. “I'll be going nowhere in this state... I'm better off being left here to die.”

“Listen to me,” Charles began, leaning forward and setting a hand upon his arm. “If you want to ensure that this war ends as quickly as possible, the safest option would be to come with me. I don't know the extent of your powers, but I can tell you that they would be dangerous in the hands of the Nazis if they found you here, and you would be forced to do things you will regret forever. The Allies can help you, Erik; the Nazis won't.”

Erik's eyes drifted towards him hesitantly, the fire's light dancing across the mysterious darkness of them. He said nothing, but his German thoughts ran wild within his mind as he turned back to gaze into the fire. A small nod was given as he sniffled and held his hands out to warm them. “... Alright,” he whispered.

Silence fell between them, save for the crackle and pop of the fire that warmed their fingers and toes. Charles wasn't sure what was going through Erik's mind but something about the way the German had answered made him almost afraid to ask. Even if he'd wanted to, he didn't get the chance. The sound of shuffling drew his attention as Erik pulled the blanket around himself and turned to lie upon the floor, facing away from the fire.

Charles sighed softly, glancing at the tin next to him on the floor. He lifted it to his lips and sipped at the broth, thankful for the warmth that washed through him. He wanted to ask Erik very badly if he wanted any or perhaps something else to eat, but it was pretty clear that the man wanted to be left alone. He must have been starving though. Charles didn't want to irritate him further, so he finished the broth and dug through his pack to lay out some things on the floor for Erik should he get hungry or thirsty in the night.

He hadn't realized how exhausted he was until he released a yawn as he lay down upon the floor, head propped up by his pack. Charles lay on his back with an arm draped across his forehead, but his gaze wandered over to the back of Erik's head as he thought of the things he'd seen within Erik's mind from just a few moments ago. He wanted to know what Erik was thinking. Normally it would be very easy for him, but the German language barred him from access to Erik's thoughts. Charles thought it best to leave him and his mind be, and he let his heavy eyes flutter closed.

 


End file.
